


Each One Marked (The Titanium Butterfly Remix)

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Order of the Phoenix - Freeform, Wizarding Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-13
Updated: 2006-01-13
Packaged: 2018-10-27 17:52:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10813863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: They were all firsts. And one was last.





	Each One Marked (The Titanium Butterfly Remix)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: This is a remix of A.J. Hall's [The Mark of the Beast](http://www.motb.shoesforindustry.net/), written for the [Remix Redux](http://remix.illuminatedtext.com/dbarchive.php). Betaed by Ellen Smithee, Merry Contrary, and Fox1013. Oh yes, I was intimidated. This is very close to original fiction, so let that be a warning to you. **Warning:** Violence, mentions of sexual abuse.  


* * *

I remembered them all. 

The first one was the easiest, which was surprising because I hadn't even been the wolf. Easy because it had been nearly accidental _(you didn't mean to shake the baby so hard, did you, Annabelle?)_ or, at least, I could convince myself that it had been. Easy because he was so small. Easy because _I_ was so small. Believe it or not, even killers develop a conscience of sorts, but I was still too young to fully differentiate between right and wrong. Easy because of the hatred that bubbled up like a dormant geyser finally given relief. The pure-blooded, angelic devil-baby -- still in his crib and afforded the advantages I'd never have. He'd see Hogwarts, he'd have friends and sports and lessons. He'd receive proper schooling, have a normal job and, probably, a normal life with a pleasant wife and a brood of equally pleasant children. I, on the other hand, had a locked shed behind the house and a mother that loathed and feared me, shouting through the keyhole about bravery and my inability to buck up, when she'd rather die than come within snapping distance of me. 

Most people would consider that sensible behaviour, and I might be inclined to agree, but that rule applied to every day of my life, not just one out of the twenty-eight. The fur, the bones and teeth too large for my small frame, the excruciating pain of transformation -- those were bad enough. My mother's hatred and that cursed brand on my hip _(You're number 3273 and that's all you'll ever be. 3272 before you, more to come, to be continued)_ were constant. Parental blame for violence is a hoary old chestnut, true, but it marked my start. I'd become my family's dirty little secret through no fault of my own and it felt terribly unjust, so shaking my cousin and placing him back in his crib for my aunt to find righted the world just a little bit. For a time, at least. 

The next one, my tutor, was four years later and, as I told Remus, no one could fault me for doing what I did. He was a miserable man, deceptively kind, and when he told me he'd had a secret for me, I had no reason not to believe him. Thrown to the ground, I got my sexual education through hands-on experience. Well. He'd come highly recommended for his experimental ideas, after all, but I couldn't really agree with his methods. My world was thrown off-course again, so I overpowered him the one day of the month where it was assured I'd be able to do so. 

He was a lot of firsts for me, that one. Besides the obvious, I learnt how to hide a body and how to best hit the jugular at an angle where the vocal cords wouldn't be _completely_ severed, yet still allowed poor Rupert's screams to go unheard. I experienced the surge of power that accompanied his resulting pain, reawakened the delightful sense of justice I first felt at my cousin's death, and discovered a practical way to avenge the crap hand life had dealt me. Was I silly enough to consider myself a vigilante? Perhaps. 

They were all firsts of sorts, which is why I can recall them each with such clarity. Luke was the first Muggle _(1978, asked me if my father was a thief. I said, "No, he's a dentist" before he had a chance to finish that terrible chat-up line. Nice laugh.)_ and the first to almost escape. He managed to scramble down the fire stairs before I caught him. He had the widest, greenest eyes I'd ever seen; they'd been at their widest before I transfigured him into a stone and carried his corpse off safely in my pocket. I might have left him that way if he hadn't attempted flight, but my admiration was such that I felt compelled to change him back. As I stored him with the others, I remembered to close those startling, glassy green things. 

First one that picked me up in a pub was shortly after my escape _(22 May 1976. It was raining, but it rained every May. It wasn't an omen or anything.)_. I waited until I was sixteen, finally of age, packed up a suitcase of my belongings, stole the satchel mother had taken out of Gringotts for that week's supplies, and never looked back. Pushing me out was the belief that Mother would be more relieved than anything. No proof of that, of course, but I held that conviction right up until the end. Lawrence radiated good-natured local boy charm. Too old for me and married (the tan line from the ring he wasn't wearing acted as a dead giveaway), he told me I intrigued him because he'd never seen me before. Quickly, I learnt that not attending Hogwarts would work to my distinct advantage. That, and my "tight little bum", which Lawrence expressed great admiration for hours later in a tiny room of the local inn. He was the first that tried begging, too, but there's no negotiating with the wolf. 

Isobel. She wasn't my first woman -- that honour belonged to Emma _(February '80. Met her in a Muggle record shop. Hair like spun gold. I wondered if she had any magic stored up in those glorious locks. She didn't.)_ \-- and Isobel was my fourth Muggle. She wasn't the first one who towered over me, nor the first to wear black combat boots half-laced up (disco was dead, after all, and the aftermath sadly predictable). Isobel wasn't the first to make me breakfast in bed, wasn't the first to prefer tender, slow lovemaking to quick-and-dirty shags, and certainly wasn't the first to balk at my insistence that we keep the lights low. I'd been using fake names for awhile by then, -- Alice, then, after Mother's love for the Squib cross-over writer, Lewis...something -- so she didn't even benefit from that. Isobel stood out because I stole her name. 

Used it right up until the end. Good thing, too; I was rather attached to it. 

Fifteen total and I recalled every one perfectly. Well, sixteen, if I included Remus. But, that was rather botched up, wasn't it? So I wouldn't say that one counted. 

***

Our beginnings were predictable enough. I was struggling with The Abomination, trying desperately not to let the steel ball pass through the flippers for the hundredth time that night. With a competitive streak a mile wide, the idea that a machine of Muggle-derivation could best me cut deep, so I found myself nearly folded over the glass, trying to ignore the smoke and golden sparks designed to distract me. I'd played the Muggle version, of course; those things were a dime-a-dozen in bars, but despite their mostly outdated methods, wizards had a way of adding a great deal of flare to those sorts of things. Flare that caused actual _pain_ , which did little to improve my mood and much to strengthen my resolve to beat the blasted thing. After my eighth knut of the night disappeared into The Abomination's depths, I determined that this would be my successful attempt, when I heard him speak up: 

"Excuse me. But I don't think you've got your stance quite right. If you'd let me show you --?" 

We were weeks away from the full moon then and I'd honestly had no designs on anything other than that blasted contraption, so I was prepared to turn whoever it was down flat. I spun around, my hand half-curled into a rude gesture, but something stopped me. My intruder's robes were obviously new and looked wrong on him, as things always do before one's had a chance to break them in. Sizing him up, I quickly concluded he was about my age, though his hair already featured a prominent grey streak and his eyes were too tired for a man a few years out of school. He intrigued me. Perhaps I saw something that reminded me of myself in those eyes, but that should have told me to run away -- and fast. But on top of all of my other shortcomings, I was never a very good listener. 

"It would -- " I paused, letting my voice go low and breathy, " -- be my pleasure." 

A moment later, he was behind me, sliding his hands onto my hips and showing me how to stand. I never conquered The Abomination, but neither did I really conquer much else after that. 

***

Three weeks after we first met, the full moon swiftly approached. My moods shifted rapidly and I briefly considered doing things the normal way. It'd been ten years since my first kill, seven years since I'd begun killing with regularity. I'd proven that I could buck the system that marked me, so I could have just...finished. Retired, or whatever the vigilante equivalent was. 

Remus and I got on quite well; I never wanted to speak of anything of substance and he seemed all right with that. He was a tender and considerate lover and never, ever complained when I turned down the lights or shifted the sheets to cover my left side. My hand found a strategic resting place on my hip, while the free one tangled in his hair. It never occurred to me that he might be hiding things, too. Stupid how self-centred humans are. I considered telling him I was going out with girls from work. After spending every night together for weeks, it wouldn't have been hard to spend a night apart. I thought we could have had another month together before it started again. 

But, no, I couldn't have done that. Part of the reason for my success was never staying in one place for long. No one suspected a werewolf because no one knew one was present. By the time someone learnt of the disappearance, I was already gone. New town, new victim, new name. 

I also considered just up and running. After all, it wasn't as though Remus and I were in love or anything close to it. Three weeks wasn't enough for Remus to be anything more than mildly disappointed that his relationship ended abruptly. A little _it's not you, it's me_ and _I hope we can stay friends!_ , the two ships pass, and that would be the end of that. 

I almost went that route, too. Interestingly enough, it was an article published in _The Daily Prophet_ the day before the full moon that cemented things for me. More restrictions were being proposed -- ones on marriage, schooling, holding a job. As though the leash wasn't already tight enough, they had to see if it could be stretched another notch. Even more insulting was the article's placement. The Ministry dealt us the blow and buried on page twelve, along with the advertisements for Madam Guinevere's Wrinkl-B-Gon Cream and an invitation to the Defeaters of Grindewald High Tea. Whatever drive had been drained out of me, flooded in again with the dam break; my mind was made up. 

With Remus, it was the first time I was ever reluctant. I invited him over for pasta, created a flatmate out of thin air, and waited until the 9.02pm moonrise. Not _only_ waited, really, as I'd been wild, half-drunk and topless, just before. Right as my face began to change, I admired his reddened, kiss-swollen lips (one of his best features), as I straddled his lap, and almost regretted the fact that I'd never see that face alive again. 

"Such a pity, love. Such a pity." I leaned in to almost-kiss him, running my fingers through the light dusting of wiry hair on his chest, tilting his chin up, just as the moon rose above my flat. 

When the changes began to overwhelm me, I braved each pop and crack, feeling my skin pull and tear. I heard the deafening crunch of bone and hissed, anticipating the pain. The pain never came. When I realised the crunch had come from below, saw another like me where my Remus had been a moment before, instinct immediately kicked in and I fled from the other werewolf's snapping jaws. The window was conveniently open and I wasted no time jumping through. Had I been expecting a chase? Or had he? 

***

On average, the male wolf weighs about fifteen pounds more than the female. Werewolves are a bit bigger than your typical wolf, so I'd say Remus had had an even bigger advantage than that. I evaded him for awhile, but I was prey. Of all people, I knew that nothing in the world would stop a wolf from reaching its prey. 

He did. And he also knew exactly how deep a bite to make so my vocal cords wouldn't be completely severed. Even more impressive since I'd still been the wolf at the time. It wasn't until I changed back that I realised how thoroughly successful he'd been. But he'd been working on pure instinct. It was to be expected. 

I was never quite sure of the full extent of my injuries, but what did it matter? I was dying because I was caught by one of my own. Instead of dwelling on that irony, I chose to focus on the dull, early morning sky hanging sadly above the Epping Forest. Light rain fell on my face and I stuck my tongue out to taste a few of the droplets. 

_Do not weep for me, This is not my true country, I have lived banished from my true country -- I now go back there, I return to the celestial sphere where every one goes in his turn._

My breathing laboured, I managed to turn to Remus who lay panting nearby, exhausted and looking panicked. In a voice so seductive it shocked even me, I said, "So. You fooled me." It never occurred to me that there might be more of us out there -- not werewolves, of course. I wasn't an idiot. Just others of us operating inside the system. If that was even Remus's motive. It didn't really matter now, though. 

Remus spoke, sounding like he was speaking through an empty tin. "How many others, Isobel? And what did you do with the bodies?" 

"So I can't convince you that you were my first?" He didn't laugh, but I smiled at him. I told him about my cousin. My secrets didn't matter much anymore. I told him about my tutor and I guessed he wouldn't blame me there. From the horrified expression on Remus's face, he didn't. I coughed and closed my eyes while staring at that wet, grey sky. 

"How many, Isobel? Where?" 

My eyes flew open. Isobel? She wore black boots, half-laced up. Isobel wasn't me. When I tried to tell him my name, I coughed again, tasting copper. Ah, there'd be time enough for that. I'd tell him later. 

I told him all I could manage about each one. Fifteen, total. Fourteen bodies hidden. Not only that, though. Told him about laughs and what they were like in bed. Told him about the old-fashioned garters Gerald wore around his shins and about how Tom liked to tap dance and wanted to bring another man into bed. Told him how no two screams sound alike. Told him to give into his instincts once in awhile. Periodically, I'd stick my tongue out to collect rain drops. My throat was soaked, I was sure, but I was so thirsty. 

By the time I reached the end of my tales, my voice was barely a rasp. "Please -- don't -- let them burn me." I wanted my body intact, wanted my mark visible. Wasn't going to let them have my body in death, too. 

"Trust me," said Remus. I did, not that it mattered much either way. I had to trust him; I had no other choice. 

I nodded weakly and closed my eyes, feeling blood trickle out of the corner of my mouth. Dying...this was what dying felt like. Had I accomplished anything in my life? Was remembering all sixteen of my victims _(yes, Annabelle, victims, victims!)_ worth it? Did my successful subversion of the Ministry pay off? Was I ever anything more than the number on my hip? 

As I drew in my last ragged breath and felt like I was floating, I decided I didn't really care. 

***


End file.
